


In an Artist's Studio

by AParisianShakespearean



Series: Dragon Age One Shots [23]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullenlingus, F/M, Lingerie, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 01:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: Nylah and her Commander make art





	In an Artist's Studio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nylahvellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylahvellan/gifts).



He stands in her room, in front of the fire. He sees the back of his hand sweep against Nylah’s shoulder, slowly peel away the mantle. His mantle. She wore it to surprise him, but as she said earlier, there were more surprises in store. It’s because of that maybe that he begins to think of her room as not a room, but an artist’s studio.

Though much of his early memory is peppered with Rosalie and Mia hunched over the kitchen table, drawing with the few different colored pencils their family could afford, Cullen never held any artistic skill. Then when he was sent to the templars there was no time to even fancy such notions of drawing or painting. He was a warrior. His hands were not supposed to hold a brush or pencil. For the longest time, he was convinced they were only made to maim and harm, nothing else.

Yet the mantle falls to the floor, and Maker he wishes he were an artist.

He would spend his whole life painting Nylah. He would spend ten years painting her and how she looks in his mantle. Then, another ten, perhaps more, would be spent in painting Nylah covered in her new lace.

“Do you like this?” she asks him, doing a little twirl in front of the fire. Her skin is dusted with fire glow, long hair shimmering down across her back. A trip to Val Royeux with Vivienne and this is the result–black, lacy lingerie. A frilly thing, and though it covers her whole body, it’s sheer in it’s material and barely covers her breasts. For added detail, there are straps across them. His gaze, traveling down, notes the straps across her thighs that keep two long sheer stockings up. “Garters,” she calls them.

“Well?” Nylah prods in a honey voice.

Cullen, who cannot keep his gaze away from the dips and curves of her body, is neither an artist nor a writer. He hopes his wide eyes and half parted lips speak of how if he could, he would paint her for a thousand years and never tire.

“Nylah,” he finally manages. “You’re perfect.”

She giggles, inching closer to him. He places his hands on her hips and on the fabric of what will surely become something she will frequently wear. The materiel is soft in his hands, sheer, though when his hands travel across her back and lower, to the swell of her hips and rear, he finds her skin far softer. He had overheard a few bawdy talks in the templar barracks over the years. So many men cramped together, it was unavoidable. Why care about the undergarments if you’re just going to take if off anyway? was a phrase often uttered. Rylen though dearly loves his sweetheart’s lacy and frilly undergarments, something he overshared with Cullen over a pint one night in the tavern. There’s fun in ripping it off, he also shared. Cullen doesn’t deny that there’s likely some truth to that.

But…

Nylah, pressed against him, tugs at the buttons of his shirt. “Patience,” he mutters against her ear suddenly, a wicked, wicked idea striking him. But is it so wicked, really, to want to feel?

She arches her neck as his fingers splay against her skin, a single bearded kiss pressing against her pulse. She inhales a deep breath at the feel, and though again her fingers tug at his shirt and tug at his breeches, he tells her, wait. Wait, and get on the bed.

She obeys, but her hand takes his wrist, leading him to the edge. She sits atop the mattress before sprawling against the Orlesian quilt that’s always reminded him too much of a peacock. It’s a gaudy thing, though it’s served them well, as has the large four poster bed. The Ferelden in him however has the natural inclination to despise anything of Orlesian make, though he’s willing to make one exception. That exception, of course, being Nylah’s lingerie.

Sprawled across the bed, she arches, compelling him to blanket over her. He doesn’t for the time being, though she mewls as he admires her. On the bed he can better admire the ensemble, see how the straps cross across her breasts and how the materiel hugs her body. Maker, what a lovely painting she would make, with her long legs covered in black stockings, her dark hair splayed against the quilt and her hands caressing her body, lower still to between her thighs. The material, he notes, barely covers her. An inch more would be all it would take, fingers moving the fabric away. And then…

And she’s grinning at him, grinning wickedly at him, fingers at the edge of that fabric, asking him to pull that inch away.

He wants to control himself but he’s all raw burn as he breaks the distance between them and grabs her hips. He hears her sharp intake of breath as he grabs her hips and brings her to the edge of the bed before kneeling before her. Hands practically claw at his shoulders in one last attempt to remove his tunic. Finally he allows it, and Maker, Maker, the feeling of the satin cloth of her garters against his back is soft and feathery. He rubs his cheek against her stocking-clad thigh and there’s the same feathery feel. Nylah mewls, impatient. But he has more games to play, more he wants to do.

The game is her fingers, threading his curls as his lips barely graze the hair between her thighs, hair the sheer fabric does a poor job of concealing. He leaves open mouthed kisses against the fabric. She’s already damp and pooling. Through the garment he opens his mouth further, teasing, teasing…

“Cullen,” she pants. “Cullen…please…please…”

He’s so aroused his cock twitches as he peeks at her, flushed and heaving. She’s so earnest that he does what her hands through his hair are begging him to do and laves ardently at her clit. Normally he would prelude with his finger or a softer tongue before giving her more, but he’s already prolonged so much. She needs him too much. Too, he himself is desperate and leaking, needing her wrapped around him. He makes her come quickly, pumping his forefinger in and out. She comes hard, calling his name. He watches the tides of it, watches the things he can do to her as they both get back on the bed and he sits on his knees and unlaces his breeches. They aren’t even pulled down all the way before she’s grasping his hips and tilting closer to him, asking, pleading.

He enters her fully and swiftly. Wet and warm, fire and glowing. He hears a rip but he doesn’t care, and in fact makes another, pushing away the fabric at her breast to squeeze. Her hands on his wrist make them stay there, legs on his shoulder tell him without words, harder.

He is hard, and fast. It’s primal and it lacks the ceremony of earlier, but in a moment when their eyes lock he cups her cheek with his hand, and she leans to leave a gentle and soft kiss. “Nylah,” he mutters, basking in her and basking in this moment. They’re fucking on the gaudy quilt and she’s wearing lacy finery, stocking covered legs soft against his chest and shoulders, and Maker he wishes he were an artist so he could forever seal this moment away in time. He fucks her like the warrior he is and the warrior he was trained to be, and she cries for him, _yes Cullen, more Cullen yes_ , but if he had any artistry in his hands he would draw her body that way as he made love to her.

He’s not an artist but he paints the image of her and this into his mind so he can remember it later as he feels their ends draw nigh. First it is her that comes, his careful digits rubbing against her clit as he continues to thrust himself inside. He waits a beat after, relishing her walls clamp around him at the height of her bliss before continuing. He comes hard, spilling both inside her and a little on the lingerie. Nylah smiles. He smiles, as she rises and wipes the sweat off his brow. They wrap each other in their arms.

A little later they’re under the covers. Cullen has long discarded his breeches, but she still wears the outfit he has fallen in love with so much. Entangled in her arms, he can feel were the outfit ripped. In their activities the garter part of her stocking broke, and in his frenzy to touch her he ended up ripping part of her brassiere.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he promises. “And another, and another…”

A gentle, soft hand, softer than the fabric caresses his cheek before kissing him. “I’m glad you liked it,” she says.

As much as he wishes he could paint the way she looks in her lingerie, as well as the way she looks wrapped in his arms, glowing and beaming and in that cloud, he knows there are some things that are too beautiful to truly capture.

“Cullen,” Nylah mutters when he tells her that, tells her how she walks in a beauty that he could not capture even if he had the skill, “you are an artist when you touch me.”

And then she brings him to his back. She strips herself of her lingerie. They make love again. He was the one that painted her body earlier, but Cullen at the moment, becoming the canvas of her love, realizes the two of them had always been art when they were together.


End file.
